


Flight or Fight?

by ButterfliesInMyStomach



Series: Butterflies Takes On RoisaFicWeek2k18! [7]
Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: Banter, Castleish fic, Coffee, Day 7, F/F, Inspired by sth, Roisa Fic Week 2k18, crime-fighting lesbians, it's half castle plot, it's the last day :(((((, roisaficweek2k18, will add more tags as this story unveils, yay!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 00:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15302982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterfliesInMyStomach/pseuds/ButterfliesInMyStomach
Summary: “Morning, Alver,” the tall redhead who always stole Luisa’s whole attention walked into the break room. She grinned like she knew everything Luisa was thinking, and sometimes, Luisa was afraid she actually did; probably still not, though, detective Ruvelle would have already pulled her gun on her for all the inappropriate scenarios Luisa liked to roll around in her head.She was a writer and she had picked detective Ruvelle, one of the New York’s finest – in every meaning of the word, in Luisa’s opinion – to be her new muse.There was nothing that could cause detective Ruvelle more pain than the mystery that lay behind her mother’s murder. It had been eighteen years ago, and the closest it had come to being solved was the day after detective Ruvelle, Rose, had received some rather saddening news from her father.





	Flight or Fight?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> I know I'm like soooo late, and this is soooo short, but I do intend to continue this, so I'll hope you'll bear with me. This chap's a little boring, if I may say so myself, but I want to keep going with this story so bad. I have thought about writing this since April, so I'll hopefully have some words and ideas :)  
> Since it's FicWeek and it's Day 7, this fic was (obviously) inspired by 'Castle'. I considered naming Luisa "Luisa Castra" for a moment (Castra - Castle in Latin), but then I was like nah.
> 
> I hope you'll forgive me for all the spam on ao3 and Tumblr this week, but I have really had a good time! And I think y'all are amazing human beings!!
> 
> As for the multi-chaps I've posted during fic week, I do intend on finishing them, if I am able to do that with the summer (starting med-school in September).
> 
> Thank you for a great fic week, and I hope you'll like my story :))))
> 
> Love,  
> -H.

“Damn it,” a curse filled the room, accompanied by the steam rising from the coffee machine. She flipped her golden-brown hair out of her face and shook the jug. She looked at the almost non-existent froth again and frowned. This was what she was usually good at. But today she kept failing. She looked at the liquid more closely, sniffed it, and winced.

“What the– “

“Morning, Alver,” the tall redhead who always stole Luisa’s whole attention walked into the break room. She grinned like she knew everything Luisa was thinking, and sometimes, Luisa was afraid she actually did; probably still not, though, detective Ruvelle would have already pulled her gun on her for all the inappropriate scenarios Luisa liked to roll around in her head. But she couldn’t help it – the woman was just so damn beautiful. The way her long, muscle curved limbs flexed every time they chased a murderer, or the way her lively scarlet hair fell from her tight bun as she re-did it in front of the scratched mirror of the ladies’ room, made Luisa drop everything she had been working on that moment.

And now wasn’t a moment of exception. Ruvelle was already halfway making her cappuccino when Luisa suddenly snapped out of her haze. That too only because the other woman was looking at her so pointedly.

“How are you today, detective?” she managed to utter out with the woman’s eyes fixed on hers. Every day she spent in this police station she was more and more amazed by the depth of these seemingly so clear, almost transparent, blue eyes. One second, she would be talking to the detective, and the other, she would be melting in her gaze. But, each day she would also feel how it was to be glared at by her. The latter was actually more often to happen, since Luisa wasn’t really keen on listening to anything detective Ruvelle said. “Stay in the car” as they were about to take someone in, “don’t eat my donut” on lunch breaks, or “my gun is only for me to shoot with” when Luisa couldn’t understand the meaning of _boundaries_. But she had to know about _everything_ , every single embarrassingly unimportant detail, even, to write her next book.

She was a writer and she had picked detective Ruvelle, one of the New York’s finest – in every meaning of the word, in Luisa’s opinion – to be her new muse. She’d already exhausted her previous one. Besides, after you’ve slept with your muse, the magic sort of… fades. Luisa had lost quite a few of them to her weakness for women. But she couldn’t change her irresistible self, it was part of her image, and she had no intentions to not stick with it.

“Exhausted,” the red-headed detective yawned, barely making an effort to hide her wide-open mouth with her left hand. “But the dead won’t wait for justice.”

Luisa shrugged with an effortless smile. “Afraid a vengeful victim’s ghost will breathe over your shoulder?”

And that’s when Luisa received the first sarcastically exasperated glare of the day.

“I’m just saying, I felt a chill run down my spine the second you walked into the room,” Luisa added, deliberately failing to mention it wasn’t the first time she had. It was nearly every time the detective came to her sight. And even though Luisa enjoyed poltergeists as much as the next fiction writer, she had to admit, not a single time had paranormal activity been to blame for the tingling sensation running down her back, or for the curling of her toes when detective Ruvelle had been present.

“I wouldn’t blame that on the dead,” the redhead closed-mouthly grinned, pouring espresso into her cup, walking to the fridge as she had done it. “Have you seen my milk?”

She stared at the half-stacked fridge, being welcomed by the sight of Chinese take-out cartons, whole milk, skim, and what looked like once had been a hot dog.

“ _Your_ milk? Like from _your_ – “

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you, a fiction writer who still wants to follow me around like a little puppy,” detective Ruvelle glared at her again, but only sparing a second from her quest for her milk. Luisa grinned.

“So, you think I’m cute?” she mused.

Ruvelle snapped her head out of the fridge again, a subtle blush painting her cheeks light red. This was one of Luisa’s favorite expression on the detective, she looked so soft at moments like this. The red on her cheeks made her cute freckles pop across her nose and beneath her eyes.

“I didn’t say that,” she uttered, fixing the holster on her hip. Luisa had noticed how the belt carrying her gun on her waist was like a stuffed animal to a kid – something secure to hold on to in the most insecure situations.

But the detective wouldn’t be so easily flustered. She straightened her back and coughed her voice clean. “So, have you seen a plastic bottle with milk, or what?”

Luisa pouted her lips, letting her eyes wander around the room, before she knew exactly where that milk in that plastic bottle had just went.

“Yeah, uhm,” she nervously ran her fingers through her hair, avoiding the detective’s gaze, “I might have just poured the last of it into the jug. But I think it’s expired anyway, I couldn’t get it to froth properly…”

“Are you serious?!” she groaned like she did when they came to a dead-end with their investigation. Luisa had always found that dismay becoming on the woman, but now she was a little scared as detective Ruvelle’s hand twitched for her gun on her belt. “It was homemade almond milk!”

“Jeez, chill. Don’t have a _cow_ ,” Luisa sighed. “Or do have a cow? I don’t know what is used to make almond milk.”

She innocently smiled at the frowning detective, gripping her cup with a drop of espresso in the bottom of it.

“A lot of work, no cows. Just me, almonds, and a blender in my kitchen,” she stared at the half-steamed milk in Luisa’s jug. “Is that mine?”

Luisa nodded, handing it over to the redhead. “This thing smells awful,” she commented as the detective very skillfully frothed the milk and poured it into her cup.

“Want to taste?” she grinned, challenge sparkling in her eyes. Luisa accepted her coffee cup, taking a sip without moving her eyes from the detective’s. And as soon as the sip had made it down her throat, she started coughing, dramatically grabbing her chest.

“Yeah, exactly what I thought,” she mumbled, “gag-reflex in a bottle.”

“I would like to gag you right about now,” detective Ruvelle muttered back. She lifted the finally finished cappuccino to her lips and took a long sip, humming to tease Luisa.

“Oh, yes. Please, do. But remember, my safe word is– “

The detective rolled her eyes and stuck a donut into Luisa’s mouth on her way out of the break room.

“How did you know it was _donuts_?” she gasped with a mouth-full of pastry. “Funny story, I actually slept with a girl named Donut once. See, she was a stripper…”

* * *

 

Luisa observed as detective Ruvelle stood face to face with the whiteboard, her eyes flicking from one lead to another. Gradually, she tilted her head as she pondered a potential strategy, but a frown fell on her face as she discarded it. After a lot of head-tilting and staring, the detective took a step toward the board, examining one name more closely.

“Leroy…,” she mumbled, her eyes betraying that she was in a whole other place with her thoughts than the bustling station. With her index finger on her temple, she leaned closer to the name written in a neat – her own – handwriting on the board.

Suddenly, she straightened up, her eyes back to the present and switched on Luisa.

“Wasn’t the name of one of the Irish mob members in that case we had three years ago, called Leroy?” she looked at the shrugging writer. “Ugh, what was his first name?”

“Brown?” Luisa offered with a smile playing around her lips. Detective Ruvelle ignored her, stepping to her computer and running a background check. As soon as her ancient piece of machinery was done, her eyes locked on the screen.

“Matthew Leroy Junior, in the underworld more commonly known as Matty Lee, the son of the most dangerous mobsters, Matthew Leroy Senior,” she turned the screen toward Luisa and pointed at the picture of a curly, ginger haired man, sporting freckles almost identical to the ones smeared across the detective’s own face.

“Your long-lost brother?” Luisa grinned, trying to grab a file from the detective’s hands. Ruvelle didn’t even move her eyes from Luisa’s face as she stoically dragged the documents further away.

Luisa pouted, knowing fully well that there still was some information she wasn’t entitled to. Even when she was helping the homicide unit solve crimes.

“Yes, because all of us, gingers, are from the same factory. Courtesy of clover, whiskey, and everything else that is so stereotypically Irish,” she witted in her favorite undertone – sarcasm. “Leroy could be the key person for us to solve this.”

The redhead addressed a couple officers in her unit, asking them to run a background check, again, on the suspicious man. He had caught her attention, and when someone did that, it usually meant nothing good for them. Every time, Luisa even felt like a part of her wanted to warn them, tell them to get lost while they could, because what was about to rain on them, wouldn’t be as easy as morning rain. But she managed to keep her side to the good one, and frankly, she would have chosen any side Rose was on.

After a couple hours, a couple more banters between the cop and the writer, one of the officers instructed to do background check on Leroy came up to detective Ruvelle and handed her a document, whispering her a few words in confidence, first.

If there was one thing Luisa hated – apart from Donald Trump, writer’s block, and rain-checks – it was being kept in the dark, especially when it came to investigating alongside detective Ruvelle.

She observed as her favorite detective’s face fell, her eyes gained a dark shade, making them lose their usual transparency, and her already pale face went as white as chalk. An unsettling lump drooped in Luisa’s stomach as Ruvelle’s suddenly tired eyes landed on hers. She motioned for Luisa to follow her, leading them to a quiet corner of the station.

Her freckle-painted cheeks regained some of their color as she took a deep breath in and out before she opened her mouth to speak. And as she looked in Luisa’s eyes, Luisa could finally name the darkness that had overcome the woman quicker than possible – fear. She’d seen it before in the ordinarily confident detective’s eyes, it wasn’t an impossibility. But this was the kind of fear that induced adrenaline to put one’s body in front of a decision – flight or fight? It brought the tiny hairs on one’s body to rise like a destressed hedgehogs’ needles. It was enjoyable because of its high, yet repulsed, sickened, even, one to the brink of gagging.

But Ruvelle was strong, and if there was anyone capable of a win in this situation, it was her.

“While doing a background research on him, they also ran his DNA through the system. Luisa...,” she looked at the other woman for a nudge to get the words out. Her eyes were pleading and sad; Luisa took her hand, silently assuring her “I’m here.”

A breath to keep her oxygen levels at the norm, and she continued.

“He was there on the day of my mother’s death. _Matthew Leroy_ probably killed my mother,” her usually sure voice cracked at the end of her sentence. She cast her eyes down to the floor and swallowed audibly.

There was nothing that could cause detective Ruvelle more pain than the mystery that lay behind her mother’s murder. It had been eighteen years ago, and the closest it had come to being solved was the day after detective Ruvelle, Rose, had received some rather saddening news from her father. She had only been ten at that time. Her father had remarried a few years later, after letting go of his grief. But Rose wouldn’t, she still hadn’t. That’s why this shook her to her very core.

“This could be it,” the detective added, looking up at Luisa again. “I could solve this. Finally get her justice.”

Luisa nodded, squeezing her hand encouragingly. If Rose wanted to solve this, she would be there for her – every lead and mislead of the way.

**Author's Note:**

> You have the right to kill me if I don't finish this. xx


End file.
